


Burn, Baby, Burn.

by Summertime_saddness



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Dark Stiles, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, canon through season 3A
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summertime_saddness/pseuds/Summertime_saddness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles had first started driving he didn’t know where he was going. But he was used to following his spark, letting the magic guide him to where he needed to go. He gave up trying to fight it years ago, followed the pull like a physical tether as it guided him to packs that needed help, magic users about to turn dark-side, hunters gone rogue, and in this instance, the long lost were-jaguar Kate Argent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn, Baby, Burn.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagined that the events from the end of 3A turned Stiles' spark "on," and he's now a powerful magic user. In my head Derek and co. are supernatural consultants who help out other packs. 
> 
> Please heed the tags! See end notes for warnings.

He’s sitting at the bar when he first sees her. He’s nursing a lukewarm beer with a torn label, it’s taste leaves a sour note on Stiles’ tongue. He’s a few hours outside of Illinois in the kind of backward clusterfuck of buildings that barely pass for a town: there’s a bar, a shitty motel, a gas station that sells cans of expired beans next to household cleaning products. 

Stiles sits at the sticky countertop and watches the blond woman across from him try to flirt with a man with leathery tan skin and a missing finger. He looks young, Stiles’ age or maybe younger, he has bright eyes in his tan face, and they are wide as they follow the movements of the woman’s body against his own. She looks the same as when Stiles had seen her last, only a little older. At least on the surface. She’s still beautiful and deadly, all sharp features and long blond hair, voice low and throaty. She's wearing a black leather jacket and a black dress so tight that Stiles could make out the lining of her bra through the fabric. Her red lipstick was smeared in one corner and her smile was vicious. Stiles took another long swig of his drink as he watched her leaning forward, letting her breasts sway in the man’s gaze, his red skin flushing even deeper. She’s laughing, voice low, sexy, dangerous. The younger man doesn’t have a chance.

When Stiles had first started driving he didn’t know where he was going. But he was used to following his spark, letting the magic guide him to where he needed to go. He gave up trying to fight it years ago, followed the pull like a physical tether as it guided him to packs that needed help, magic users about to turn dark-side, hunters gone rogue, and in this instance, the long lost werejaguar Kate Argent. 

The cheap wood of the chair pushes splintered fragments into the denim of his jeans, scraping against the skin of his thighs. He reaches up to pull his hair off his face, the damp dark strands sticking to his pale skin like strips of days old adhesive. He feels disgusting. The bar is hot, air heavy and humid as the bodies of the town’s occupants crowd together, pressing their wet skin against each other, leaving smears of grease and dark dirt on clothes, hands, faces, while fingers reach under the hems of shirt, slipping inside ill fitting bras. Everything smells like sex, like grime, like blood and beer. Stiles keeps his gaze focused on the woman in front of him, watching the way her eyes track the man in her grip, like a predator gearing up to strike its prey. Straight for the juggler, there is no mercy in the wild.

He can feel the study pulse of his magic thrumming inside of him. It’s excited, impatiently pressing against his skin, zipping brightly across his eyelids when he blinks, white light flashing across his eyes. He’s supposed to be in Ohio, meeting up with the rest of the pack to deal with some magical anomaly one of the Derek’s contacts had reported. He’ll think of some excuse to tell them later. They know not to come between Stiles and his magic. 

He still remembers how it felt, the first time, when the nemeton’s power had curled within his body turning his spark into a flame, into a wildfire, igniting his insides like his blood had been transformed into lightning, scorching him from the inside out. He’s learned a thing or two about control since then, learned how to keep his power always ready inside of him, like a tightly coiled spring, ready to strike at Stiles’ sign. He thinks he understands Kate in that moment, watching her lean down to lick a wet strip across the man’s neck, whispering into his ear. What’s the point of having all that power if you can’t fucking use it?

Kate looks beautiful under the dim yellow lights on the bar, she looks like a movie star, all red lips and tight leather, smile wide and bright. But Stiles can see her skin cells dying and healing in intervals, can smell the slow sluggish movements of her heart, the way her lungs don’t quite work as they should. She’s dying. Probably been pumped full of wolfsbane too many times, maybe a spell or two used against her never quite faded. Now that Stiles can see clearly he can tell that she’s in pain, her body moving too slowly, too human. A slow death that’s coming quickly to completion. Not quickly enough.

Stiles places the bottle firmly against the counter, a crack forming along it’s neck from where his hot hand had gripped it. Kate looks up, their eyes lock, and Stiles grins. 

It’s easy to get her to leave the other man behind, he doesn’t even have to compel her with magic to get her to follow him, she nods eagerly when he asks her if she wants to get out of there, to go get a room in the motel down the block. She doesn’t recognize him and Stiles isn’t surprised. Even though he still looks younger than his actual age, it’s been 11 years since he was sixteen and skinny with flailing limbs and sharp words. He’s grown his hair out, shaved one side of it, has tattoos that swirl up his arms and curve down his spine, muscles that hold the promise of strength, of masculinity. He’s handsome in a way he never thought he’d be and Kate keeps telling him he has the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen. She coughs wetly as they make the walk over to the motel a few blocks down from the bar and Stiles watches as she wipes inky blackness from her lips with the back of her hand. 

“What are you looking at, baby.” She asks teasingly, leaning up against his side, pressing her breasts into the meat of his arm. 

He grins down at her, taller than he was when they’d been face to face last. He leans in, kissing her messily and tasting the plastic gunk of her lipstick, the sickly decay of her mouth. He fights the urge to be sick as she surges up, tries to push her slippery tongue past his teeth, pressing into his mouth. He presses her back gently.

“We’re almost at the motel,” Stiles says, keeping his voice light, fun, the barest hint of laughter. “It’s across the street.” 

She pouts, red lips pulling her skin downwards, it looks papery in the moonlight. 

“Aw, you’re no fun, I want to do you now,” she whines. 

Stiles leans towards her again and Stiles sees her press her face forward for another kiss, but he turns slightly, pressing his mouth against her ear. 

“When we get to the motel,” He breathes, hot air ghosting over the shell of her ear. He can feel her shiver. “I’ll let you tie me up and fuck me just how you want. You can do whatever you want.” 

When he pulls back, Kate’s eyes are shining, her smile is slow, sensuous. 

“Sweetheart, it’s like you know me so well.”

 

He thinks about Derek as he peels Kate’s dress off her lithe body, how he must have felt, 15 years old and broken after Page’s death, face to face with a 25 year old Kate Argent. Kate and her bright smile, perfect skin, shining blond hair, that moves the under the too bright lights of the 25 dollar an hour motel room like liquid gold. He thinks about Derek as he mouths against her breasts, hooks his fingers under the lace of her underwear, sliding it slowly down her hips. He’s stronger that she is, and he can feels her blood rushing under his tongue in fear and excitement, magic giving power and strength into his arms, letting him pin to her to the stained bed, press her deeper into the dirty cotton. He thinks about Derek and his rare smiles, how his face will close up sometimes, how he’ll hide within himself on days that seem too difficult. He thinks about how Derek looks when he wakes up from a nightmare, covered in sweat, running over to the window of their bedroom, taking in heaving gasps of fresh air, trying to get the scent of burning flesh out of his nose and mouth. He think about how hard Derek has worked, to rebuild himself, rebuild a pack, rebuild a family, a life, with Stiles. How he tells jokes with obvious punchlines, eats blue (only blue) corn chips in bed, has an unhealthy obsession with argyle socks. Derek’s healthy now, healed, doesn’t need revenge to make things right. But Stiles, oh, how Stiles needs this. 

He waits until Kate is underneath him, writhing and wet, gasping at every touch of Stiles fingertips against her too warm skin. It’s easier to see now that’s she's exposed, vulnerable, just how sick she is. Blue veins protruding under too pale skin, bones jagged, joints swollen, as if one last shift might break them. He presses her against the mattress one last time, the bed creaking in protest, the metal springs of the broken box spring pressing sharply against Stiles’ knees. When he pulls back up, Kate’s body stays down, magic holding her tightly in place. Stiles sees the moment she realizes she is trapped, hazy lust giving way to panic, her limbs jerk, bend, as she struggles against the invisible restraints. 

“What, what are you doing,” Kate gaps, thrashing from side to side, eyes beginning to glow a sickly off yellow. “What are you?”

Stiles stands back, lets the magic wash over him, change his aura to something a little more familiar. In seconds he’s wearing a bright red hoodie over a plaid shirt, buzzed hair sticky and soft, pale face round with baby fat. Kate’s eyes widen, her movements on the bed get wilder, more desperate.

“Sti-Stilinski?” She gasps, “What-”

Stiles lets his eyes burn the bright lavender of his spark, lets his fingertips glow, let’s the tattoos on his body begin to come alive, writhing over his body in an elegant dance to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Kate’s mouth is open, jaw slack, she smells like decay, sweat, and fear, and Stiles breathes it in, one deep pull of her toxic scent.

“Yeah,” He says, shrugging lightly. “It’s me.” He leans forward again, lets his glowing fingertips brush against the inside of Kate’s thighs, a parody of seduction. He feels calm, focused, the magic thrumming within him excited and pleased. 

“And this,” Stiles says softly, almost sounding bored. “Is for Derek.”

He flicks his hand up, pressing all five fingers into Kate’s soft stomach, pushing his spark into her. Kate screams. Bones morphing and cracking until she is shifted, skin a mottled grey green, broken, flaking claws sprouted from her hands. She’s howling now, eyes burning yellow, boring into Stiles’. Under her skin Stiles watched as tiny flashes of lightning race up her body, scorching hot, burning through her muscle, roaring through bone and soft tissue. He pulls his hand back slowly, watches as her body jerks wildly from side to side as her howl turns to wet, heaving, gasps of agony. It’s over sooner than Stiles’ would have liked. In less than three minutes Kate Argent is a petrified mass of sunken in charred bone and burnt flesh, smoke rising up to curl gently around the room. The smell is nauseating. 

He leaves her body there.

Halfway to Ohio he pulls off at an hotel, scrubs himself clean of the smell of burning flesh and dying things, throws away his clothes and puts on something new and fresh. He won’t tell Derek what happened, there’s no point. As he gets back into the jeep, the thumbs the screen of his phone, sends off a text of his ETA. He lets the calming pull of his magic wash over him, settling him. It’s pleased, satisfied, and Stiles lets the momentarily calm settle within him. He knows it won't last.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles engages in sexual contact with Kate with the intent to lure her in, in order to kill her. It is implied that Derek and Stiles are in a relationship during this time. There are references to Kate's sexual abuse of Derek when he was underage (15). If the idea of Kate and Stiles doing anything remotely sexual squicks you out than I wouldn't read this fic. 
> 
> Please let me know if I missed any warnings or appropriate tags. Thank you for reading!!


End file.
